


Use

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Dystopia, Ficlet, M/M, Mirror Universe, Ownership, Public Nudity, Slavery, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s slave makes a minor mistake on the bridge and might pay the consequence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Use

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon's "Kind of weird that someone as young and cute as Pavel made it onto the Enterprise, right? Turns out Pavel's not there because of his brains -- he's there because Kirk bought him at a slave market somewhere and now he's Enterprise property. Pavel can hate it or be used to it, but I'd love to see Kirk casually invoking ownership to get Pavel to do what he wants." prompt on the [Star Trek ID Kink Meme](http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1172500#t1172500).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Jim’s still proud of his purchase. The Empire doesn’t need to buy slaves to man their ships—stations like the Enterprise are desirable enough—but sometimes Jim does like a few deckhands who he knows belong to _him_ and _his ship_ —crew members that can’t be transferred under the Empire’s conniving hands. It’s not so much that Jim gets attached as Jim likes to train his underlings to _his_ specifications, and breaking in a new one is a tiresome affair.

Chekov’s already broken. Chekov came that way, trembling and nervous and bristling with promising talent and a complete lack of power alike. He’s adorable and ingenious: the perfect cog for Jim’s machine. He would’ve never made it in the Empire as anything more than a slave, even with his brilliant mind. But now, thanks to Jim’s purchase, he gets to sit at the console of the best ship in the fleet, punching in coordinates.

“Ensign,” Jim drawls on a whim. Several heads swivel to look at him, to check, fear in their eyes, but they turn away when they see who Jim’s watching.

Looking over his shoulder timidly, Chekov asks, “Yes, Keptain?” Because it’s captain on the bridge and master in Jim’s quarters. Chekov’s top notch in both mind and body; he never slips up with his addresses. He still looks nervous now, because Jim didn’t get to be where he is in their corrupt system by being _nice._

“How long until we reach Orion?” Jim knows. But he needs an excuse to watch that little pink tongue trace nervously over those plush lips. Chekov doesn’t disappoint, trying to stay professional, but his youth and lack of control betray him.

“Ah... zhirty... zhirty meenutes, Keptain.”

“Good,” Jim barks. Then, as casually as though discussing the weather, “Now say it in your bedroom voice.”

Chekov’s cheeks colour immediately. Jim’s all-powerful. He could do this to anyone, really, but he probably wouldn’t to another officer of the Empire. One he didn’t promote himself, anyway. He would to a lowly slave. Chekov chews his lip cutely. Jim’s acutely aware of how many others are subtly watching Chekov out the corner of their eyes, lusting after _Jim’s_ toy. Sulu’s hand isn’t even visible across the console—it’s probably in his lap, massaging the bulge Chekov always gives him.

“ _Zhirty meenutes... Keptain,_ ” Chekov purrs in a thick, raunchy voice befitting an Orion slave. There’s a hint of a moan in it, just like Jim likes to hear. But he looks horribly ashamed the whole time he does it, like he’ll be punished for impropriety, before turning back around in his chair to look at his star chart.

Raising an eyebrow, Jim leisurely asks, “Did you just turn your back to me, slave?”

Chekov stiffens immediately. His shoulders rise, and his muscles go rigid through his shirt. He thought Jim was done with him, obviously, and was just innocently trying to not be a bother. He still thinks he is, sitting in such a high position—he doesn’t know his worth. But Jim has half an hour to kill, and he drawls quietly, “Perhaps you need to be taught another lesson.”

Chekov is silent. He never disagrees. He merely nods his head in acceptance, and Sulu’s full on turned sideways, like a few other officers. Jim allows this; he wants everyone to witness Chekov’s value. Chekov’s so very pretty when he blushes.

“Stand up.” Jim’s leaning a little forward in his chair now. Chekov immediately stands up besides his station, still turned around. “Bend over the console.” Chekov obediently arches over it, ass sticking out, and he dares to glance over his shoulder. His cheeks are burning with humiliation: perfect, though his eyes burn with a familiar flicker of _lust_ that Jim always inspires. Smirking up a storm, Jim growls like the predator he is, “Now tug down that uniform you don’t deserve and show everyone why you’re on my bridge despite your lackluster behaviour. Present yourself for your captain.”

It’s all just foreplay, really. Chekov always has impeccable behavior; he’s just skittish and young. He’s a good boy when ordered—in that aspect, he wouldn’t be an entirely bad soldier. He’s eager and knowledge-hungry and wildly intelligent, but he’s not ruthless enough for the Empire and he’s too cute to not belong in someone’s bed. If he were a girl, Jim would be constantly breeding him. Instead, he’s the perfect tool to keep Jim’s blood pumping.

Jim’s cock doesn’t take long to fill. Chekov whimpers for show but obeys. He reaches behind himself, gently tugging his pants down over his ass, which is difficult, because Jim always makes sure his uniform is just a little too tight. He has such a beautiful ass—round and plump but taut and tight, all at once. It’s soft and scrumptious. Jim hungrily watches every centimeter be slowly revealed, and he revels in the knowledge that everyone around him is watching something only he can have. Chekov leaves the pants on his upper thighs, right under his ass. Then his fingers slide tentatively up to his cheeks, hesitating.

Jim makes a growling, warning noise in the back of his throat, and Chekov grabs himself, two healthy handfuls off ass. His pale skin turns pink on contact, and he spreads his cheeks open, showing off his crack and the little, pink, puckered hole at the bottom, glistening with a hint of moisture from the lube Jim makes him apply several times a day. Jim’s borderline insatiable and needs his pets ready to go at any time. Chekov’s always, somehow, still amazingly tight, and he looks that way now. Jim catches Sulu licking his lips. Chekov’s fingers are trembling, but he keeps holding his cheeks apart. The tops of his rosy, hairless balls are just barely visible, ducking into his pants. His ass is stuck so perfectly in the air, but Jim still purrs, “Is that the best you can do?”

And Chekov presses his cheek right to the console, clawing his ass a little tighter and stretching it wider. His spread legs shiver. His face is burning, eyes half-lidded. Jim takes a second to survey the room, lapping up all the hungry faces.

Then Jim climbs steadily out of his chair, rubbing the prominent bulge in his pants. He strolls closer, and he can hear Chekov’s heavy breathing. Chekov brought this on himself and looks eager for it, his body straining to present itself well. He deserves a good, rough fucking, right here in front of the audience.

Jim’s just barely unclasped his fly when the turbolift doors open, and Spock strolls in, late to the party. He takes one look at what’s going on and approaches Jim, who lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Captain.”

“Mr. Spock.”

Spock spares another glance at Chekov’s ripe form. With an arched eyebrow, Spock comments levelly, “This is an inappropriate display for the bridge of a starship with an officer of the Empire.”

Rolling his eyes, Jim grumbles, “He’s not an officer of the Empire. He’s my slave; this is what I bought him for.”

Chekov’s still standing there while Spock suggests, “Perhaps he should be left in your quarters, in that case.”

“Can’t I kill two birds with one stone? We needed a new navigator, and I need something nice to look at.” Jim’s about to stroll angrily back to his chair, when he says instead, pivoting back to his-favourite-first-officer-that-always-manages-to-get-away-with-too-much, “And don’t scold me; I’m your captain.”

Spock concedes, nodding once. “My apologies, Captain.”

Spock’s the only one whose apologies can spare him the agonizer. Jim nods, still eyeing Chekov and debating. An ass like that can’t not be plundered, but Spock’s arrival must mean the shuttle’s ready. And now he’s not sure how much time he has left—Jim doesn’t like to be rushed when he’s fucking. Perhaps he’ll just leave Chekov there and let the crew go at him. Judging from the expression on Sulu’s hungry face, it would ensure a few bouts of loyalty.

“Entering Orion space, Captain,” Uhura calls from the background. “Should I hail a landing order?”

Sighing in regret, Jim grunts, “Yeah.” Then he takes the extra step forward, slaps Chekov’s pretty ass and orders, “Stay here, slave, just like this.”

Chekov whimpers from the hit and whines quietly, thick with disappointment, “Yes, Keptain.”

Smirking wide, Jim turns and heads for the turbolift, barking, “Spock, Uhura, you’re with me. Sulu, you have the bridge.” He’s flanked in followers in a second, ready to go exert more power elsewhere.

And when he gets back, he’ll slink back into what he always has, power and pleasure and everything he’s ever wanted.


End file.
